


I Don’t Hear a Single

by cleverqueen



Series: Coldwave Week 2017 [4]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, ColdWave Week 2017, Established Relationship, Fire, M/M, Musicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 19:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12514664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleverqueen/pseuds/cleverqueen
Summary: Day 4: Alternate EarthLen is a rock star whose stage name is Captain Cold. (He wanted “The Captain,” but that got confusing with Captain and Tennille.) Mick is the roadie who writes half his songs.  They both like it that way and get a kick out of A&R people trying to poach Mick. They enjoy it less when the A&R people try to break them up.





	I Don’t Hear a Single

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers song “Into the Great Wide Open.” Largely because there’s an A&R person in it and it’s a musician AU. That’s entirely the reasoning. (Okay, and that the guys are soooo not single, but that was secondary.)

Mick stretched out on the small hotel bed, Len splayed across his chest. Cool cotton sheets against his back made a delicious counterpoint to Len’s warm fingers tracing invisible patterns on his stomach. In the early evening silence, he was content. _This_ might have been his favorite part of being a Captain Cold roadie. Except for the uncertainty of it. 

While Len and Mick had given up on separate rooms years ago, Len’s manager always asked _. As though the answer might have changed._

Mick’s muscles must have tensed at the thought, because Len’s hand went from _idle fingertips_ to _full-palm stroking._ Mick relaxed into the sensation like he always did. Len calmed him, made a buffer between Mick and the world’s problems. Mick wondered if he did the same for Len.

Mick gently dislodged his lover and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I wrote you a song,” he said.

Len propped himself up against the headboard and pillows. “For me?” he was breathless and wide-eyed. Then the moment passed and his lids narrowed, head tilted. “Or for ‘Captain Cold.’”

For coming up on thirty years, Leonard Snart had been known as the music star Captain Cold. He started in teenage pop, like his father had, then moved into new wave, alternative rock, college coffee shop folk, and was now back to pop again. As a teen, he’d just gone by Cold, and no one had been sure whether that was his name or his band’s. His manager had added the Captain when Len moved into new wave, and it had stuck ever since.

“I guess it’s for Cold,” Mick said. He wrote about half of Cold’s songs and was more than happy to take second billing on the credit sheets that no one ever read. He didn’t need fame, just Len. Len’s attention. Len’s continued existence. 

Mick grabbed a folk guitar out of the closet, and strummed a few E-chords to get the instrument in tune. The new song went something like this:

_Inside you, a quiet passion rages,_   
_Which I standing outside hope to fathom;_   
_And therein reigns Love, in all Love’s grand stages,_   
_Indiff’rent yet to my hopes and mem’ries._   
_I’ve cried for the times you’ve simply taken,_   
_For the fear you might steal more than I have—_   
_My heart, love, my devotion unshaken_   
_To your core of secret radiation._   
_You are the wellspring and cemetery,_   
_Generating as well as reflecting_   
_Spectral ghosts of remembered symmetries_   
_Till mem’ry fades into your bright connecting_

_All that heat and shining, your love most fiery._   
_Forever you own my entirety._

Len beckoned Mick back to his side as the final chord died out. “It’s lovely,” he said as he wrapped an arm around Mick’s shoulders and drew him down to the mattress. “But you know I can’t use it.”

The embrace felt like an apology, and that was just wrong. Yes, Mick had poured time and soul into the song, but that didn’t mean Len was _obligated_ to—

“It’s a song about fire, and that wouldn’t come out right.”

And that was more than fair. Except that it wasn’t actually a song about fire. Well, it had started that way, but he’d been thinking of Len part way through writing it. Thinking of the engagement ring packed into his suitcase for the last seven months and the perfect way to ask if Len wanted to expand their on-tour _understanding_ into something more official. So, it was really a song for Len. Which, yes, would be equally as awkward as Len singing a song about fire.

Mick settled further into the arms around him and pressed a benediction-kiss to Len’s forehead. Then his nose, which scrunched in the most adorable way. Then his lips, still slightly swollen from earlier activities. When Mick would have deepened the kiss, Len turned it into more of a peck. 

“Do you think,” Len began. He pulled away and tugged Mick’s head down to his shoulder so they couldn’t look each other in the eyes. “If I stopped touring, and didn’t need a roadie anymore—”

Len took a deep breath, and it stole all the air from Mick’s own lungs. He felt empty. No heart, no breath, no stomach. Had he managed to push Len away somehow? Maybe too many songs about fire had made Len feel like second best. But that song hadn’t been! 

“—would you perhaps want to come with me to Central City? I’d understand if you said no. There’s nothing for you there. No shows to set up, no fans to wrangle. You joined my tour to get away from the sedentary life. I know that. But I still have to ask.” The nervous rambling would have been cute and sweet if it weren’t so very painful. And now that Mick knew Len didn’t plan to break up with him, he saw no reason to put his lover through this twisting torture.

“I joined the tour for _you,_ idiot,” Mick said. “And of course I’ll go to Central for you too.”

Len’s eyes were big and blue and as full of the devotion Mick knew shone in his own. If there was ever a moment to propose marriage, this was it. Mick sucked in oxygen, gripped Len’s hands in his. He could do this. He’d practiced what to say in showers, while coiling XLR cables, and when driving to Radio Shack for last-minute microphones. He said, “Len, we’ve been together for coming up on thirty years now.”

A knock at the door interrupted Mick’s much-rehearsed speech. 

“We need to leave for the concert hall in ten minutes, guys,” Sara called from the hallway. Sara Lance had been Len’s manager since he left teen pop (and his father’s Snart Records) behind. “Get a move on.”

Len gave Mick a rueful shrug, and they both tumbled off the bed and into street clothes. Mick gave one last mournful look to his rucksack—with the engagement ring still in it—but acknowledged it wasn’t the right time. He shoved his room key in his jeans’ back pocket and gestured for Len to lead him out.

“It’s going to be a great show,” Sara enthused when they joined her in the hall. She said that every time, and always sincerely. “Oh, and there are some A&R people coming tonight, Mick, in case you want to show off any fire songs that Cold isn’t using.”

They all laughed. A&R people were forever hoping to poach Mick from the Captain Cold tour. They never seemed to realize he was happy as Len’s chief roadie and background songwriter. If he’d wanted to join up with a label in his own right, he’d have done it decades ago, before he got too attached to Len, before he’d made inroads in Cold’s media machine. 

Scratch that. Mick had been too attached to Len since they’d first met at a Lewis Snart revival concert where Len was technically the head roadie but none of the old hands would listen to him. Mick wasn’t much older than Len, but he was a helluva lot bigger. They listened.

***

Mick usually got downtime during the show. He popped in his earplugs, washed his hands, and didn’t have to do much besides guard Len’s dressing room until the halfway point (when he’d have to change the set dressing). He used to work more during the new wave and alternative rock days, but now Len was transitioning from folk to pop again, so no one expected over-the-top displays yet. They just wanted to see _him._

Hence, Mick was looming at the very back of the concert hall, keeping an eye on the surging crowds—he was ready to direct the security teams if any fans breached the metaphorical moat around the stage—when a tall, reedy woman with impeccably plucked eyebrows and no lipstick tapped his forearm. Mick raised his hands into a questioning shrug, and she replied by producing a business card. 

**_Maxine Ironside_ **   
_A & R_   
**_Snart Records_ **

Mick shook his head and pushed the card back at her. That should have been enough of a brush off, but she dragged him outside into the lobby.

“Let’s talk about your future and potential,” Ironside said.

“Not interested,” said Mick. “Thought I made that clear.”

But A&R pros never took the first no for an answer. “I know you’re talented. You know you’re talented. And you can stay close to Cold. Snart Records is a family business.”

Mick growled. That was too far. Len had left Snart Records the second his contract was up, and he’d never once had a nice thing to say about his tie there. Mick could’ve given Ironside a piece of his mind, but the song wrapped up, muted as it was through the doors, and Mick wanted to hear the inter-number banter.

“Good evening, Berkeley!” Len’s voice boomed and dampened as it echoed in the concert hall and slid through Mick’s earplugs. The crowd cheered, of course. “I’m so glad to be here with you tonight, because there’s no better audience to share this special news with.” The crowd cheered louder. If Mick had gotten around to proposing, he would’ve known what Len was talking about, but he hadn’t, so what? “Your city is the first stop on my—” The cheers drowned out whatever Len said, and he had to repeat. “The first stop on my final tour.”

It went quiet enough that Mick pulled out an earplug. Still silent, save for a few shocked sobs. He pushed it back in. The volume would pick up again soon enough. For now, he could mostly hear his own heart beating too loud and too fast. _He’s really done it._

Ironside leaned up and spoke into Mick’s ear. “Without the Captain Cold tour, my offer makes even more sense in your life. You don’t have to split your loyalties.”

As if allying with Snart Records wouldn’t count as _split loyalties._ “Didn’t you hear?” Mick asked. “We’re retiring.”

Ironside quirked her blade-sharp brows. “If Captain Cold weren’t in the picture, would you give me a chance?”

Mick just laughed. As far as he was concerned, Captain Cold would _always_ be in the picture. They were going to live in Central City; Len had invited him, and Mick was saying yes. They were going to get married; Mick was going to ask, and Len was going to say yes. They had more than just a thirty-year _understanding._ They were together, partners. “Yeah, sure,” Mick said and took Ironside’s business card.

“I’ll be seeing you,” she said.

“Whatever.” Mick needed to get to the stage and head Sara off before she had a melt-down all over Berkeley, CA.

***

“Need to go over some tech things. The light gels,” Mick said when he got to Len’s dressing room. 

Sara immediately stopped berating her star and turned to Mick. _Tech stuff with the light gels_ was Mick and Sara’s code for _personal stuff._ Sara could yell at Len later, but Mick wasn’t always willing to gossip. She wagged a finger at Len before joining Mick. 

Mick smirked at his lover, who made a rude gesture in return, before he bundled Sara into her rental car and drove back to the hotel.

They set up at the bar—generic mahogany top and uncomfortable wooden stools—and sucked three vodka shots apiece before Mick broached the subject. “I’m gonna ask Len to marry me.”

Sara snorted vodka onto the mahogany, then waved the bartender over. “Just bring us a bottle, okay. Charge it to my room.” She refilled her shot and regained her calm. “So, marriage.”

“Yeah.” Mick felt his neck heating up, just talking about it. He hadn’t shared his intentions with anyone before. It felt good. More real. “Do you think we could get reservations at that place in Monterey tomorrow, hit the aquarium, and then I could ask him?”

She put her head in the hand that wasn’t grasping a glass. “You don’t need to go overboard, Mick. You know that, right?”

Mick shrugged. Sure, he’d almost asked in bed today. But Len _liked_ overboard. After decades as a rockstar, he’d got a taste for the dramatic. To be honest, he’d probably had the taste long before the stardom.

“But yes. I can set up the aquarium visit if—”

 _Weeee-oooo-weeee-oooo-weeeee-oooo._ The hotel’s fire alarm wailed, loud enough that Mick wished he still had earplugs in. Fire doors slammed closed, and the bartender screamed for people to evacuate the hotel in a calm and orderly manner.

Sara tugged on Mick’s arm. “C’mon, Mick. Let’s go.”

He knew she wanted to get him outside before they could see any actual flames. Flames would suck him in, and he’d never get away from the danger. More likely to run _into_ it.

“Len,” he said. Len was still in the hotel. Probably in their room. Mick couldn’t leave until he was sure Len got out.

He charged forward, through the fire doors and away from the exits of calm and orderly evacuation. “Len!” he called, knowing it was ridiculous and wasting breath. He dashed up two flights of stairs before the air got warm. On the third flight, he burst out of the stairwell. “Len!” he called again. This was their floor.

The fire was strong here. It danced and reached for him. Its flames extended in all directions, trying to grab at Mick’s mind and heart, to ensconce him in its heart.

The rushing fire filled his ears, even blocking out the persistent _weee-oo-wee-oo_ alarm. It was more of a _shush-shush_ and then a _roooooooaaaaaa_. But underneath, like a hidden treble track, Mick heard something else. 

Screaming.

 _Len!_ Mick would never write songs about fire again. He’d loved fire’s implacable power, the heat, the sheer welcoming indifference for so long. But he loved Len more. His worst nightmare was Len going up in flames and then dying (or leaving him because he didn’t help).

Mick had to go even deeper into the blaze, to challenge the fire at its sparky heart. Nothing would keep him from saving Len, nothing short of his own death.

A hand on his arm stopped him before he could forge ahead. It was Ironside from Snart Records with her perfect brows and nude lips. “You’ll only get hurt,” she said.

Len was still screaming, losing his higher register in favor of hoarse yells instead.

“Let the firefighters deal with it,” she said. 

Mick turned to the stairwell he’d just vacated. The door was, indeed, open with two firefighters coming out. They wore beige-and-yellow suits, rebreathers, and helmets. They had masks attached to their belts, and they waved arms like tentacles at Mick and Ironside. “Everyone must evacuate!” they said.

Ironside nodded. “See?” she said. “Now that you don’t need to worry about Captain Cold, let’s go downstairs and talk about your career with Snart Records.”

Mick’s head pulled back on his neck. Something was wrong with that statement. 

Ironside moseyed to the firefighters and whispered something to them. One returned to the stairwell at her words, the other angled his body to follow but with a hand extended towards Mick.

They were leaving. They were going to leave Len to burn, as if he were dead already. _No!_

Mick snatched a mask from the closer firefighter’s belt and waded into the flames. The licking heat singed the hair on his arms, but he couldn’t enjoy the frisson of wicking. He had to find Len. He followed the ever-quieter screams.

His eyebrows flashed, and he slapped at them with a reddening hand. 

_There!_ Ahead, curled on the floor with a white hotel towel over his mouth, Len coughed and coughed. His body shook with coughs and wracking screams. His hair was gone. His clothes smoldered against his skin.

Mick thought he’d never looked more beautiful.

Never looked more in need of protection.

Mick grabbed his partner and sprinted as fast as he could, Len’s coughs in his ears. _Good thing he planned to retire._ Len would be sad not to sing again, but sadder to be dead.

***

Down in the lobby, Mick handed Len off to the EMTs, but kept a hold of his lover’s hand. Lurking cops and firefighters dropped by to check on the high profile guest, and Mick took advantage to point out Ms. Ironside as the potential arsonist.

Sara didn’t let the pigs deflect blame onto Mick himself. She agreed that Ironside had been suspicious in her insistence on signing Mick. Then Sara dismissed everyone from the scene— _damn, that takes presence_ —and shoved Mick into Len’s ambulance. She followed him in , cramming him closer against Len’s side.

Sirens wailed overhead, but they were nothing to the pounding in Mick’s ears. He could’ve lost Len. Could have been alone again. _You and me against the world, partner_ only works when you have a partner.

“Lenny,” he opened. He had a whole speech, but it wasn’t important now. He dropped to his knees beside Len’s cot. “I lost the ring in the fire, but... will you marry me?”

Len coughed hard. Once, twice, again. The EMTs pushed some buttons and patted his shoulders. Mick waited, motionless on the van’s floor.

When Len’s fit ended, he smiled beneath his oxygen mask. “Yes, yes, of course yes.” The words forced more coughs from him, and an EMT demanded that he _stop speaking please, sir._ The _you idiot_ was implied.

Len motioned with a strapped down hand, and Sara produced a small box from her purse. 

She handed it over to Mick. “While Cold was a public commodity, he had to stay visibly single, but now that Cold’s retired, he planned to ask you the same.”

Mick opened the box. It was an engagement ring, silvery metal that didn’t seem like silver, studded throughout with 1/3 carat diamonds because Len hated pave. “I love it,” he said, sliding it onto his reddened ring finger.

This action caused the EMTs to notice just how lobstered Mick’s skin was. They shoved him onto the next cot over and slathered stuff over his skin, pushed another oxygen mask onto him. 

Mick rolled his eyes at Len who rolled his own back. They’d get around to the romancing and the kissing later.

_Ch-snap!_

“Smile,” said Sara, waving her phone camera at them. “And congratulations.”

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgements to William Shakespeare for borrowing some words from “Sonnet 31” for Mick’s song lyrics. I’m very proud of my sonnet variation in its ambiguousness for being either about fire or a lover. So you’re all stuck reading it. :-P
> 
> Tracking - When I decided to do Coldwave Week, it was already two weeks too late, and I hadn’t given any thought to the stories that would fit the themes. I decided I’d try to write a short story a day. (My SO immediately laughed.) Progress:  
> * Finished first story draft on 8/27 (from 8/24). So, not making the one story a day thing.  
> * Finished second story draft on 9/8. Yeah.... the SO was definitely right.  
> * Finished third story draft on 9/8. If only I could keep up this pace.  
> * Finished fourth story draft on 9/9. Looking good.


End file.
